


Fragile

by justlikepagliaccis



Category: The Who
Genre: Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Mentions of Sex, a generous helping of nicknames, but it's okay bc john loves him anyway, feat. pete's bloody fingers, john tries his hand at caregiving, otherwise pretty tame, pete is A Mess
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-14
Updated: 2020-11-14
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:49:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27550294
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justlikepagliaccis/pseuds/justlikepagliaccis
Summary: Pete had the habit of working himself too hard on his songs. Fortunately for him, John was there to help him recover in the hours that follow.
Relationships: John Entwistle/Pete Townshend
Comments: 2
Kudos: 13





	Fragile

**Author's Note:**

> The idea of John helping bandage Pete up after excessive playing has been living in my mind rent-free for months until I wrote this. I have a bunch more towntwistle fics lined up too!  
> But for now,  
> Enjoy!  
> – adeleine

Pete awoke with delicate white snow framing his bedroom window. He groaned as he pulled himself off of the plush softness that was his pillow, bandaged fingers tapped a short beat into his thigh as if he had a guitar in his hands.

Some part of him wished he had an acoustic around just to pluck at. It became a comfort even if it sliced his skin open after hours of playing. Pete frowned at his bandaged hands; he wouldn’t be playing any hits with those. His normally nimble and dexterous fingers were confined in thick tape leaving tendrils of pain behind. 

The space next to him was recently vacated, the blankets askew and the package of cigs on the nightstand adjacent gone. Pete’s heart sank shamefully. Of course he’d leave so soon. The ghost of hard, searing kisses haunted him, making his lips twitch for more. He hadn’t even given him a goodbye. But they’d see each other in the studio. Pete was being overly sentimental. 

Sliding out of his cocoon of sheets, Pete padded over to his nightgown laying in a heap on the floor. Memories of the previous night rolled through his head like a film reel. Pete hurriedly suppressed them as he scooped the fabric from the ground. His knees creaked and ached from the effort. He pulled the collar securely around the pale expanse of his neck which was marred with several purpling love bites. 

When Pete reached his kitchen, he was pleasantly surprised to find John sitting at his table. Steely blue eyes pinned him to his spot immediately and Pete felt inexplicably bashful. He sat there like he belonged there (that certainly wasn’t a lie) and was beautifully mussed from sleep. 

This must have been Pete’s sappy feelings talking again, but there was no denying it. John’s jet black hair stuck up in little cowlicks on the top of his head and his shoulders were slumped tiredly over the edge of the table. He noticed that John had taken the liberty to make them both a pot of tea: one of Pete's yellow mugs was cradled between John's large, graceful hands. Pete’s gaze flicked down to his own and scowled to himself. 

“Mornin’,” John greeted, seeing right through Pete. He hesitated, then finally approached the table. It was his bloody house anyway! 

“Hullo,” Pete said. He plopped down on a wooden chair across from John. 

Rubbing tenderly at the bandages, Pete ducked his head, feeling overly exposed and vulnerable. This didn’t go unnoticed by John. One of those warm hands shot across to tenderly run across Pete’s shoulder, a thumb sneaking over to the base of his neck playfully. 

They sat in companionable silence, John’s hand remaining unwavering on Pete, grounding him to reality as his focus drifted out the window to the snow piling up outside. Finally, John drained the dregs of his tea and stood up. Pete immediately snapped to attention as the warmth was ripped away from him. John laughed at him, but it was more fond than mocking. The hand returned, cupping Pete’s face and tracing the planes of his nose. His stomach swam with anxiety at the action, still not used to so much attention being given to the sources of his insecurities. 

“Goin’ out for a smoke,” John explained, eyes twinkling with amusement. “Comin’ Bone?”

Pete found himself scrambling to his feet to follow him out the front door. He didn’t know what on earth possessed him to be so clingy this morning. It could’ve had something to do with the careful way John had tended to his bloodied fingers, the way he’d trailed kisses and nibbles up his arms despite Pete being a sniveling, emotional mess. It could’ve been the way John took him easy and gentle and made Pete feel whole and, most of all, loved. Now this fiasco left him wanting more of John. 

So he stepped out into the frigid January air, huddling close to John who was trying to light a cigarette against the gusts of icy wind. He flicked the lighter again and again, watching the flame catch, then fizzle shortly thereafter. Pete smiled at the look of concentration that overtook his best friend’s face. Fortunately, the cig eventually got lit. 

John took a long drag, sighing out a cloud of smoke. He offered it to Pete between two fingers. Instead of taking it in his own battered ones, Pete jutted his chin out and took it between his lips. It was a terribly intimate act and Pete prayed John wouldn’t mind. Pulling away, he blew his smoke up towards the roof of the porch. He didn’t dare look back at John, afraid of what his response would be.

The pair watched the falling snow for a bit longer until they lost the feeling in their toes and had to head back inside. As soon as the door closed firmly behind them, Pete quickly gravitated over to John. His hopes at being nonchalant and casual evaporated when those eyes cut into him. His legs locked and buckled, unable to support his already thin and malnourished frame. But John was there to support him and lead him over to the couch to rest. 

Pete wasn’t content sitting all alone and it wasn’t long until he complained via an agitated harrumph. John laughed and muttered something under his breath about princesses but was otherwise compliant. Strong arms wrapped around Pete’s body and he felt content again as he found solace burrowed away in the crook of John’s neck. From there, he worked at a small hickey of his own, worrying the skin just next to his Adam’s apple. John hummed lowly, a noise of approval, and kissed Pete’s temple. 

The first kiss of the day had him melting in a matter of seconds. So much so that Pete had to pull away from his current business at John’s neck to pucker his lips for a kiss on the mouth. John gave him the chaste peck he wanted, but dove back in for something deeper and more passionate. 

Hints of the night before flowed between them and made Pete’s stomach twist. Then again, that could’ve been from him eating stale biscuits with tea for two days. He was drunk on the feeling and tried to convince John to kiss him again. Much to his displeasure, the bassist only chuckled and directed his attention towards Pete’s fingers.

With heartbreaking gentleness, John cradled one of Pete’s hands in his own. The difference in size was almost laughable, as John’s fingers were much longer and larger compared to Pete’s own fragile-looking ones. This contrast was amplified due to Pete’s bandages. 

John inspected the tape for a moment, making sure everything was where it should be and none had come loose. He was checking to see if Pete had played despite his injuries. The last time that happened, John lost his temper and had smashed Pete’s guitar himself in the sitting room. To this day, he was still able to find splinters amongst the carpeting and furniture. 

Fortunately, John found nothing wrong with either hand and let them fall gracelessly back onto Pete’s lap. 

“Protective git,” he said softly, voice rough. 

It had been an emotional night for him (he wasn’t sure about John, but the way he stared at him screamed otherwise) and it was virtually impossible to act like himself again. He hoped John didn’t mind his vulnerability, his horrible submissiveness that would surely cause him to drown his sorrows in a bottle of brandy the next day.

“I wouldn’t have t’be if you didn’t go out an’ fuck yourself up constantly,” he replied finding the love bites he’d left from the night before and running his thumb over them. 

Pete would have to get a turtleneck to cover those up. But then again, he didn’t usually hide them unless they were going to an important event. Maybe he would leave these be for a while. The bruises made him feel very full on the inside.

Everything was just so rose-tinted and wonderful all of the sudden. Then again, whenever John came by he fixed things up a bit, dragged Pete from his grayscale thoughts into colorful reality. He could be a bit of a mother hen for someone who probably does far worse drugs than Pete. Empty brandy bottles would be collected and binned, the curtains would be yanked open to brighten up dark, pitiful rooms, and any injuries Pete had inflicted to himself were hastily tended to before any infections occurred. 

It was lucky for Pete that John arrived when he did, because his need for perfection made him sit with a guitar on his lap for hours strumming his fingers raw and bloody. He didn’t notice it and even if Pete felt a slight burn, he wasn’t going to stop.

John had strode in, took one glance at him – an unshaven mess of blood and uncombed hair – and didn’t waste any time cleaning him up. John had the patience of a saint when it came to Pete. He didn’t have the patience for himself sometimes, and John could witness him looking like a hobo who’d just strangled a man with his bare hands for three pounds without screaming his head off. Insane. But the thought made him grin. 

When Pete had finally directed his attention back to the present, he realized that John had been talking to him the entire time. He joined in at a strange point: one of his dogs had taken a liking to the water he was using to wash dishes in the sink and had hopped up to drink it. Pete must have looked beyond bewildered because John quickly cut himself off and scowled at him. 

“You're not listenin’, are you?” He asked, unamused. Pete opened his mouth to protest but closed it quickly after realizing he didn’t really have a case. 

“No. But ‘m not paying attention for good reasons!” Pete tried, offering his best innocent smile. John’s expression didn’t waver. “I was just thinkin’ about how loving and kind and caring you are.” 

He wasn’t sure that he could lay it on thicker than that. Compliments had been known to work in the past – usually when John was drunk. The only problem was that John wasn’t drunk. “Start again, I do wanna ‘ear it, love. Please.” 

John gave him one last look and sighed, beginning the story again. This time Pete was absolutely rapt and made a point of it. Each time John glanced at him, he was able to crumble that stony facade and get him to smile between words. It kept up until the two of them were laughing like drunken idiots, clinging onto one another to prevent themselves from falling off of the couch. 

Their attempts were in vain, however, because no matter how much they tried, they were both too large for such a small loveseat. Pete immediately blamed John for already taking up three-quarters of the sofa already, but it was his lanky legs that threw them off balance.

The floor was cold and merciless against Pete’s elbows as he hit the ground with a yelp, moaning in exaggerated pain even if he was still smiling. John followed soon after and landed directly on top of him. Pete shouted at the sudden weight and tried to worm away. 

“John, you’re crushin’ me, mate. Absolutely killin’ me. I feel my last breath coming…” He gasped theatrically, clawing weakly at the wood beneath him. 

John didn’t budge from his current spot with his back resting comfortably on Pete’s hips. Pete finally went limp from all of his struggling and let his spindly fingers card through John’s hair. The action was hampered from the bandages restraining them, but he managed to make even that look graceful. John hummed contentedly and leaned his head back into cool, waiting palms. 

They rested like this until Pete’s stomach growled and John definitely heard. It was a tad embarrassing, especially when those thoughtful eyes directed their attention onto him. Pete couldn’t even come up with something sarcastic to say because John had gotten up and yanked him along for the ride. He hadn’t realized how easily manipulated his emaciated body could be. Smashing guitars on stage seemed to give him the illusion of brute strength when he actually sorely lacked it. John, however, was a different story. 

He was much stronger and had always been, ever since they were teenagers. John had the strong, powerful arms Pete lacked, the broad chest to his frail and lean. And although Pete could definitely hold his own with a few kicks and inexperienced punches, he could easily be manhandled. He hated it and fortunately John knew him well enough to keep from doing it often. This time Pete was too emotionally exhausted to protest as he was led through the sitting room and back into his kitchen. 

He watched John pour him a cup of warm tea and slide a few slices of bread into the toaster. It felt like his head was filled with cotton. He couldn’t process any thought. The tea was thick and sweet on his tongue and some distant part of his brain pointed out that John had remembered how he liked it. Pete mumbled some slurred version of a “thank you” and stared out the window blearily. 

Soon, John pushed a plate of buttered toast at him. “Eat before you pass out for good,” he urged. Pete slowly set his teacup down and tried his best to pick up the toast with his mangled fingers. 

In the end, he finished about one and a half slices of toast and downed the cup of tea. His stomach ached from the amount of food he ate at once, but it was more of a pleasant feeling than anything else. Pete felt two times better from just eating. He knew that if John wasn’t around, he’d probably forget entirely. It wasn’t that Pete didn’t want to eat, he just got so immersed in his writing that feeding himself was at the very bottom of his list of priorities. 

“Skeleton,” John remarked dryly from his place leaned up against the counter. Pete, who hadn’t realized that he was watching all of this time, ducked his head. “Y’do realize humans need food to survive? Or maybe you don’t. Is there somethin’ you aren’t tellin’ us, Bone?” 

Pete scowled half-heartedly. “Callin’ me an alien, Ox?” 

“I’d do no such thing,” he scoffed, walking over to kiss the scowl right off of Pete’s face. 

Pete couldn’t even feel his fingers anymore. He couldn’t even remember what he was so emotional about. Pete was going to offer some sort of wordless apology, knowing that John obviously felt obligated to care for him in this manner, but the ringing of the telephone dismissed any hope of executing any sort of idea. 

Heaving a sigh, Pete rose to his feet with the weight of the world on his shoulders. He shuffled over to the phone, self-consciously tugging at his nightgown. 

“Hello?” God, his voice couldn’t be any more ragged. Pete didn’t realize how shitty he actually sounded until he could hear it echoed back at him. 

“Pete? Love, I was calling you all night! Had me worried to death, you did.”

The absolute last person that he expected to hear was his mum. Pete glanced over at John in the kitchen. He cocked his head in a silent question: who is it? Pete mouthed his answer as he tried to keep up with everything she wanted to know.

What were you doing? You weren’t out partying, were you? Who were you with? Is that why you wouldn’t answer me? How many drinks did you have? You sound bloody awful, dear, did you take some medicine for that?

When the interrogation was finally over, Pete felt exhausted again. He just wanted to sleep for a week. He could already feel the pain creeping back up into his fingers, his stomach, his head. Warm hands came to rest at his waist, holding Pete steady as he leant back into a comforting chest. Nothing was said because nothing needed to be said. John knew. That’s what was so wonderful about him. 

Pete was led back to his bedroom. It didn’t take him long to lie back on the bed. He stretched happily, already finding a perfect place amongst the downy pillows. John followed, plopping down beside him. John’s weight made Pete roll from his spot and slam into him with a startled grunt.

Scrunching his eyes up against the light coming from the window, he casually buried his face in John’s neck, touching him restlessly any way he could. Pete moved his hands over John’s chest, pausing over his heart, swooping over his side and landing on his bicep. It was silent adoration. 'Thank you for your patience. You always handle me so well.' 

“Shiverin’, love,” John mumbled. Pete didn’t realize he was cold. John was like a furnace, how could he be freezing?

John draped the covers over them, securing that last bit of privacy. Pete entangled their legs and bit back a small smile. He would be fine lying here forever. 

FIN.


End file.
